“Alma!” Her father was calling up the stairs. “Alma! Are you ready for school?”
Alma woke with a start. Her eyes felt gritty, and her mouth was dry. Pulling back her covers, she saw that her nightgown was shredded, brambles clinging to the mud-coated fabric. She was still wearing her shoes. She ran her fingers through her hair and came away with two leaves and a stick. She smelled like smoke.
Her father was on the stairs now. “Alma! It’s imperative that you come downstairs! We’re going to be late!”
If her father came in here, if he saw her covered in foliage and smelling like a campfire, what would he say? What would he think?
Nothing good, that was for sure. There would be a lot of Discussions if her father found her like this.
Alma leaped out of bed and pulled the covers over the dirt-caked sheets. She grabbed her school clothes from the day before and flew out of her room and into the bathroom across the hall, slamming the door as her father reached the landing. She clicked the lock and turned on the shower.
“Alma?” her father called through the door. “Are you almost ready?”
“Oh! Yes!” Alma replied. “Almost.”
There was silence on the other side of the door. Then, “Alma, is the shower on? You don’t have time for a shower.”
“Don’t worry!” Alma cried. “I’ll just be a minute!”
Another silence, and then her father sighed a long, exasperated sigh. “Okay, Alma,” he said. “Okay. You’re going to be extremely late, but I suppose that’s your choice.”
Alma stepped into the shower, nightgown, shoes, and all. The water ran sludgy and thick, a waterfall of mud.
When she got out, she hung her sort-of clean nightgown over the showerhead and pulled the curtain shut. She dressed as quickly as she could, then ran downstairs, past her parents, and out the back door. She could hear her father calling after her, his voice frantic, but she rushed on, pushing her way through the bushes, the still-bare twigs scratching at her in protest.
Until she reached the far edge of the yard, the border of the Preserve.
Where she found the pit in the earth. The pit where the Starling had been last night.
The pit was wider than her bedroom—two or even three times as wide—and it looked almost as deep as she was tall. There was no grass there, and the earth was smooth and undisturbed.
“A crater,” Alma said.
“Alma!” Her father was yelling from the back door. “Alma! We really have to leave! Right now!”
Alma took a tentative step into the crater. The dirt here was redder than the earth around it and more loosely packed. It shifted under her feet. In the center, the ground was black, charred by something very, very hot. Across from the crater, Alma saw that some tree trunks were singed as well.
After last night, she’d felt sure the Starling was real.
Now she had evidence.